His welcome might not last for long.
He lifted his fist to pound upon the door, then caught sight of a freshly polished knocker. Of course. How gauche of him. He lifted the heavy brass ring and gave two curt raps against its base.
The door opened immediately.
It was not Heath Grenville or his wife on the other side. It was not even a disgruntled twelve-year-old in messy plaits and a pinafore.
It was a butler. A real one. The sort who would expect a calling card.
Bloody hell.
They stared at each other in silence.
Max sighed. Nothing for it but to blurt his name and hope the elegant door wasn’t slammed in his face.
Before he could do so, the butler stepped aside and swept an arm toward the corridor behind. “This way, Master Gideon.”
Max blinked. Gingerly, he crossed the threshold. His heart pounded. Not only had he been invited, special care had been taken to ensure his comfort from the moment his boots reached the front step.
He inclined his head towards the butler. “Thank you.”
Did one thank a butler? Max had no idea.
Murmurs of conversation and laughter spilled from an adjoining room.
The butler led him through the corridor to an open doorway and announced his name.
Max braced himself.
No one gasped in alarm or dismay. Instead, a half dozen familiar faces smiled back at him in welcome.
Heath and his wife. Lord and Lady Wainwright. Mrs. Spaulding, who ran the school for girls and had personally obliterated all dignity from a noble game of cards.
But Max only had eyes for Bryony.
Her eyes shone as he stepped forward to greet her. Her hair was in some sort of a twist. Her gown was a flowing mint silk trimmed with jade satin. But he couldn’t tear his gaze from her face.
She looked even more beautiful without the mask.
He tried to keep his breath steady.
“You came,” she whispered.
Of course he had. This was where he could find her.
“Mr. Gideon,” said the headmistress. “I’d like to introduce you to my husband, Inspector Simon Spaulding.”
Max copied Mr. Spaulding’s bow as precisely as he could.
“And this is my brother, Carter Winfield,” Heath’s wife, Nora, gestured to a golden-haired fellow with an ungentlemanly tanned complexion. “He’s come all the way from the West Midlands.”
“Can’t stay long,” Mr. Winfield reminded his sister. “Someone’s got to take care of the sheep now that you’ve defected to London.”
Max blinked. The sheep?
She sent him the sort of stern frown all sisters seemed to master at a young age. “I thought you hired help. You promised. Next year, I expect you to stay for the Season.”
Asheepfarmer.
